There is a rundown garage
behind my grandfather's back porch
covered with Japanese beetles

and twining ivy. The handles on the door
shine with mottled pewter hues
in the sunlight; illuminated sparks

in the haze of an exhausted summer.
Every night the fragile hostas
celebrated the approaching night

with one slow wavering bow to the moon
and then rustled off to sleep,
convinced they'd outlived another day.

One of those nights the moon was low and full,
and clouds like whisk-brooms crept over its face.
Driven from bed by the weary complaints

of cooling wood, I crept to the kitchen
at midnight, catching sight of the purple moon
humming gracefully against the August night.

The translucent form of my grandfather
trembled within the flux of plum light,
weaving in and out of sight

with the motion of the clouds.
It scared me, the way he faded outright
when I looked at him directly,

as if he weren't sure he could be
as resilient as the flowers in his front yard.
I watched him hover, indecisive,

as the moon shut down and folded him into night.